Snow
by Bainaku
Summary: Prince Gumball isn't fond of the white stuff.  Marshall Lee is determined to change that.


**A/N**: For someone who said I couldn't write two guys together. _Come at me, bro._

**Words: **2,245

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**SNOW**

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Marshall Lee finds Gumball hunched over his desk and grumbling, buried up to his ears in a bright green glittery sweater that looks like the maimed corpse of a Christmas tree—tinsel and all. As the vampire drifts to perch on the edge of said desk, the prince glances up at him. He huffs. His pen pauses in its scritch over a bit of parchment. He's wearing mittens too, Marshall notices, horrible scarlet-striped fuzzy things reminiscent of moldy candy canes.

"You have snow in your hair," Gumball sniffs. Digging his nose down farther into his sweater's neck, he flicks his gaze back to his parchment: resumes his writing. _Skk-tik-tik-skk_.

"Yeah, well, you look like a holiday barfed on you," Marshall Lee shoots back. He reaches to feather his fingers through his bangs. Sure enough, they come away dusted in white up to the knuckles, the tips wet. Flicking the cold little droplets at the bundled prince, the vampire provides, "Hi, by the way."

Gumball flinches away slightly, his breath a steaming cloud simmering up over the sweater's folds. His good nature nevertheless crooks his mouth's corner aright. "Hello, Marshall Lee." _Skitta-skitta _goes the pen. "Don't make fun of my wardrobe. I'm garbed so out of necessity—the palace heater's broken."

"Aww, poor ickle chilled _baby_."

Steadfast in his ignorance of the jibe, Gumball pursues, "What brings you here today? Near"—the prince checks the clock on the desk's lowermost shelf—"noon, no less! It is that cloudy out?"

"Snowing so hard you can barely see," confirms Marshall Lee. He ferrets around through Gumball's pencil cup, finds an eraser shaped like a licorice whip: drains it. "It's awesome," he opines next. "Gotta be at least three feet of pure powder out there. Maybe four."

Gumball grimaces. It's quick, there a second and gone the next, a compression of cheeks and lips: a flare of nostrils too. A shadow runs its rill down the stupid cleft in the prince's chin and he says, "How wonderful!" There's no heart in the sentiment, though, and Marshall Lee frowns.

"Why the face, man?" he nudges.

"What face?" Hunching a little closer to his parchment, Gumball sets about writing in earnest. "There is no face. Well, I mean, there _is _a face, but there's nothing _unusual _about said face and—"

"Do you not like snow or something?" Marshall Lee interrupts.

The prince pauses. So does the pen on the parchment, and from its tip bleeds a black-bronze blotch. "It is not," he admits at length, "my favorite weather, no. But please don't feel the need to _correct_—oh Snickers, Marshall Lee, don't look at me like _that_—"

Marshall Lee grins. Plucking the pen from Gumball's grasp, he tosses it across the room and professes, "Get your freaking coat, PG. I'm gonna help you learn to appreciate snow."

"I don't _want _to learn to appreciate snow! See, I knew you'd do this," the prince grouches. "I knew you'd just ignore absolutely everything I said and—Marshall, geez, let _go _of me—"

Marshall Lee does no such thing. Marshall Lee hooks his hands in Gumball's sleeves and drags at them until the prince spills out of his chair with a yelp. "Stop being a baby," demands the vampire. "C'mon! Get your coat!"

"But the salt requisition!" Gumball jabs a finger at the parchment still on his desk. "I need to finish it! The sidewalks are _terrible_—"

"The sidewalks," disagrees Marshall Lee, "are buried under all that snow I absolutely refuse to let you avoid." He kicks off the desk, sending tacks scattering everywhere. A moment later he's rifling shamelessly through Gumball's closet. Just about everything the prince owns is some dumb shade of pink or mauve or—_blech_—lavender, but at the back of the closet he unearths a reasonably cool-looking black leather jacket. Flinging it to Gumball in a jingle of zippers, he determines, "There. You won't be mistaken for my lunch in that." Insert prissy squawk of complaint. "Now put it on and let's go!"

Gumball glares at Marshall Lee. Grudgingly he shrugs into the jacket, though, and asks as he flips back the creased collar, "If I humor you in attempting this experience, will you agree to let me finish writing up my requisition later?"

"Sure, whatever. Here." Excavating through the closet once more, Marshall Lee yanks free a scarf. "Your mortal neck will appreciate this. And put on another pair of socks. And hey, speaking of feet, don't forget your boots either. You might want a hat—"

"Yes, Mother," sighs the prince. As he makes for his dresser and opens the upper drawer to peruse the assortment of meticulously folded socks therein, he blinks back at Marshall Lee and asks, "Uhm, so… what are we going to do exactly?"

The vampire smirks.

"That is the lid to a refuse bin, Marshall Lee," Gumball observes approximately half an hour later, tone full of reproach. "Why did you steal it?"

"Aw c'mon, dude. I'm gonna give it back."

"But they probably need it!"

"Yeah, well—they can _chill _for a while, okay? Sheesh." Marshall Lee squints into the slant of the snow across the Candy Kingdom, clutching the lid to his chest. He and Gumball are pretty much the only two people outdoors: the roads are empty, snakes of white dissolving to gray near the gutters. A queer kind of quiet quivers thick about the place. Overhead the sky is a leaden swirl of soupy clouds and flakes fall in dense clusters from it, lighting soft on the vampire's lashes. "Over there," he decides, snatching at Gumball's jacket. "Yeah, that'll work. Follow me."

For the prince's benefit he walks toward their destination, reveling in the sharp _krnch-krnch _of the snow beneath his boots, in the scent of winter-mixed-marzipan on the breeze. "Where are we going?" Gumball queries. He doesn't sound nearly as happy as Marshall Lee feels, which sucks. The vampire wants his pal to enjoy this.

"We're going up, man. _Up_." He waves to the hill they're ascending. It's not hard going yet: the snow is deep but packed, making for an easy climb so far. "As high as we can."

Gumball sighs. They trudge along the incline for a minute or two in relative silence but for the sound of their footfalls: gradually the younger monarch starts to breathe heavier, and Marshall Lee doesn't need to look at him to know he's sweating. Not that Gumball's out of shape—the hill just goes on and on forever, nigh kissing the stone hue of the sky, and anyone who isn't immortal is bound to have issues with the hike.

"So," Marshall Lee ventures finally, hoping to distract Gumball from the difficulty of the trek, "why don't you like snow?"

His friend's reply is terse, maybe because he's trying to conserve breath and maybe because he's not proud of it: "It's been snowing in the Ice Kingdom every time that psycho queen's dragged me there." Gumball's exhale is a white nimbus, his teeth a whiter flash behind it. "Unpleasant association, I guess."

"Oh. That, uh," the vampire attempts. "That… yeah. Makes sense."

"Indeed."

Cue awkward stretch of absolutely no conversation.

Halting for a moment when Gumball's respiration is more wheezing than anything else, Marshall Lee thrusts the garbage can's lid at his friend. He directs, "Here, hold this for me."

Gumball takes it without protest. He does manage a bark of dissent, however, when the Vampire King scoops him up like a bride and flies toward the hill's summit.

"Marshall Lee!" he pants. "Put me down! I'm not a child!" The zipper of his jacket bites into Marshall Lee's shoulder as he struggles. His heartbeat pounds into a high throb and he smells like frosting, like ganache and hot chocolate and fresh cupcakes with strawberry cream. Lucky for him, reflects the vampire idly—most dudes just reek of onions after a workout.

"Shut it," he orders the other monarch. "We're almost there. I don't want you to keel over before we've even started having fun."

"How could this _possibly _be fun?"

They reach the incline's zenith. Dumping the prince into the snow there, Marshall Lee takes the garbage can's lid back from Gumball and answers, "You're about to find out. C'mere."

He plops down into the powder too, crouching with the lid in eager hands. He arranges it near the hill's drop, climbs onto it. He scoots forward as far as he can: crosses his legs and hooks his fingers over the cold metal rim. Looking up, he finds Gumball staring at him. The other monarch's expression is nothing short of nonplused.

"I said _c'mere_. Sit behind me," Marshall Lee instructs. "Hurry up, PG! This is gonna be epic!"

"I'm not sure I'll fit," Gumball admits dubiously. He hunkers down, one knee braced on the lid—his eyes flicker between Marshall Lee and the hill, Marshall Lee and the hill. They crinkle at the corners and he realizes, his free hand tugging at the trailing scarf around his neck, "We're going to slide down, aren't we?"

"Took you that long to figure it out?" Marshall Lee yanks at the prince's jeans. "You're taking _forever_, dude. You're killin' me and that's a flipping accomplishment, considering I'm already dead."

Gumball doesn't say anything. He gazes down the hill, down down _down _across his kingdom and Aaa, and the wind whips a skeen of frost up over his cheek. "We're going to slide down?" he repeats, and there's something new in his voice, something small and frail and still six years old. He's forgotten all about the salt requisition, it looks like—has forgotten about the Ice Queen and her kingdom and all the bad memories that stem from there.

Marshall Lee beams. That's more like it.

"Yeah," he affirms. "Yeah, we're gonna slide down if you'll just get your stupid bubbly butt on here, okay?"

Gumball hesitates a second more, then scrabbles onto the garbage can's lid. His knee knocks hard against the vampire's spine; the toe of his boot digs a freaking furrow in Marshall Lee's buttock too. His breath fogs down the older monarch's neck as he leans in and the buttons on the lapels of his jacket jab like thumbs into his friend's shoulders. His chest is wider than Marshall Lee's—deeper. "What now?" he asks. "How do we start it? I'm not sure we'll be able to produce sufficient momentum to maneuver ourselves over the crest—"

Marshall Lee sinks his hands into the snow alongside the lid and _heaves_.

He's not the Vampire King for nothing. His strength is incredible and maybe sometimes Gumball just forgets that, but regardless—they don't slide over the peak. They _shoot _off it in a spume of snow, exploding out into empty air like a bullet from a gun's barrel, and Marshall Lee shrieks, "HOLD ON!"

Gumball's arms belt about his waist.

The lid dives and they go with it: they smash into the hillside, scissor wildly right and then they're plummeting, skating sharp over the powdery white surface. Gumball yells—Marshall Lee howls. The wind tears at them and the prince's scarf goes sailing up into the sky and then, oh _glob_, they spin around _backwards _and tumble off the lid in a tangle of limbs. They roll down the hill another several hundred feet thus, knocking heads and slamming hips. When they end up at the bottom Marshall Lee has somehow managed to lose a boot, and the sleeve of Gumball's jacket is torn and they are _laughing_, laughing so hard they're both crying as they clutch at one another. The lid _schwips _past them and off into oblivion, lost to the blur of the snowfall.

"You," Gumball hisses breathlessly. "Oh, my stomach. You—you have s-snow in your hair _again_, Marshall Lee."

"Casualty of war, you know," the vampire snickers. One of his fangs feels loose. He props himself up on his elbow in the slush and probes the tooth with his tongue, grinning such that his face might just split open if he gives it another millimeter. "Wanna get it for me?"

He ducks his head. Gumball reaches obligingly over to fluff the flakes free—but his hand furls next in Marshall Lee's hair, and the vampire doesn't have time to do anything but blink before the prince hauls his face up again and crushes their mouths together.

"Mmph," Marshall Lee growls. He bites at Gumball's lip and the younger monarch chuckles, pulling him closer: his jacket creaks. His sweater scratches at the king's collar and he still smells like cupcakes.

When they pull apart, Gumball's breath all pale jets in the air between them, Marshall Lee arches a brow and ventures, "Wanna do it again?"

"Which? The sledding or—ah. This?"

"Hey, buddy." Marshall Lee offers his fist. "There is _nothing _wrong with both, am I right?"

Gumball thumbs his chin—lifts his hand and bumps his knuckles into Marshall Lee's. "You are _quite _right," he affirms. "Might I suggest a bigger lid this time?"

"Well look at _that_. Plotting _grand_ larceny!" Rocking to his feet, the older monarch brushes snow from his pants and provides his friend a hand too. "Am I a bad influence on you, Bubba?"

The wind stirs, sounding for all the world like laughter in its skip up the hill. Gumball takes Marshall Lee's fingers. "My friend," he insists, tugging them fiercely, "you most definitely are."


End file.
